that you say will happen; kings will lose their privileges, as
stars which have survived their aeons lose their splendor. But when that
moment comes, Raoul, we shall be dead. And remember well what I say
to you. In this world, all, men, women, and kings, must live for the
present. We can only live for the future for God."

This was the manner in which Athos and Raoul were, as usual, conversing,
and walking backwards and forwards in the long alley of limes in the
park, when the bell which served to announce to the comte either the
hour of dinner or the arrival of a visitor, was rung; and, without
attaching any importance to it, he turned towards the house with his
son; and at the end of the alley they found themselves in the presence
of Aramis and Porthos.

Chapter XXVI. The Last Adieux.

Raoul uttered a cry, and affectionately embraced Porthos. Aramis and
Athos embraced like old men; and this embrace itself being a question
for Aramis, he immediately said, "My friend, we have not long to remain
with you."

"Ah!" said the comte.

"Only time to tell you of my good fortune," interrupted Porthos.

"Ah!" said Raoul.

Athos looked silently at Aramis, whose somber air had already appeared
to him very little in harmony with the good news Porthos hinted.

"What is the good fortune that has happened to you? Let us hear it,"
said Raoul, with a smile.

"The king has made me a duke," said the worthy Porthos, with an air of
mystery, in the ear of the young man, "a duke by _brevet_."

But the _asides_ of Porthos were always loud enough to be heard by
everybody. His murmurs were in the diapason of ordinary roaring. Athos
heard him, and uttered an exclamation which made Aramis start. The
latter took Athos by the arm, and, after having asked Porthos's
permission to say a word to his friend in private, "My dear Athos," he
began, "you see me overwhelmed with grief and trouble."

"With grief and trouble, my dear friend?" cried the comte; "oh, what?"

"In two words. I have conspired against the king; that conspiracy has
failed, and, at this moment, I am doubtless pursued."

"You are pursued!--a conspiracy! Eh! my friend, what do you tell me?"

"The saddest truth. I am entirely ruined."

"Well, but Porthos--this title of duke--what does all that mean?"

"That is the subject of my severest pain; that is the deepest of my
wounds. I have, believing in infallible success, drawn Porthos into my
conspiracy. He threw himself